Ramblings of a Cynical Brat
by Evelyn.Myhki.Riddle
Summary: Harry Potter dies, aged 203. Quite willingly so, too. But then he meets Death, who makes him do it all over again - not that he wants to. Second chance story with a twist. Humor, loads of  non-graphic  slash, sarcastic!powerful!Harry.
1. Chapter 1

_**Ramblings of a Cynical Brat**_

**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Never will. Goddamn.

**Summary**: Harry Potter dies, aged 203. Quite willingly so, too. But then he meets Death, who makes him do it all over again - not that he wants to. Second chance story with a twist. Humor, loads of non-graphic slash, sarcastic!powerful!Harry.

**AN: **First multi-chapter story, don't blame me if it's a bit shit. Wait, do blame me. I wrote it.

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><p><strong><span>Chapter One – A is for Affections and Assumptions<span>**

There I was, lying on my lovely squishy death bead, about to fall into blissful oblivion for the last time. Severus (he had dropped 'Albus' at the age of twenty, when we discovered exactly what Albus had been) and his husband Scorpius had their arms wrapped around their two adopted children Lucan and Nerissa, who were both about forty and still unmarried.

Lily Luna and her husband Felix were wiping tears out of Daniel and Fred's eyes – the twins were only seven - while their son Harold and his boyfriend Fabian were smiling sadly on the other side of the bed.

James and his fourth wife Lilac were at the head of my bed with James' daughter Eileen and her husband Cormac, and their son Romulus. My great-great-grandson. Wow.

Hermione – as old as me, but still kicking - was gripping Rose's hand while Hugo and his wife Maria were clutching each other tightly. The recent discovery of Ronald's betrayal had left Hermione and the children, even Maria, very emotional.

Anyway, the large group of, what, nineteen, were all crowded round little old me, crying or smiling or not saying anything at all really. Rather boring. But hey, I was dying. What do you expect?

"Harry…" Hermione whispered, grabbing my hand. Well, I couldn't really see that she took my hand, but I felt it. Blackness surrounding my vision, you know. I couldn't help but notice that the ceiling needed repainting. Bloody brilliant.

"Someone paint… the fucking… ceiling…" I said slowly. Hermione let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh and nodded, smiling through tears.

"Before you die, would… would you like to say anything?" Severus said, hiccupping lightly.

"I could try, I guess… but I'm not pa- particularly witty… and if I try to… to say anything…" I paused for a breath. "… anything sentimental, I'll fuck it- it up… So, no, no- not really." The blackness was getting thicker now, and I thought with a mental grin how peaceful it would be to sleep for forever. People never really see the goodness in death – it's an end to the brief fling that is life, an endless break after the tiring whirlwind of non-stop action and movement. I was welcoming it with open arms, no matter the people I would leave behind.

"Oh, I… I got something. James – James, settle down. You're too much like… like my dogfather… except straight-er…" James chuckled and nodded.

"Harold, Fabian… Lily Luna… Felix… look after the twins, love them, raise them well… raise them like I was… never raised."

"Hermione… find a guy, get re-married, but make sure he isn't… another Weasley…" Tears dripped down her face as she nodded shakily.

"Sev… Scorpius… Luke and 'Rissa… I love you, all of you… You're the family I… I wish I had when I was… was a child. Keep… keep this family. Love eachother… all of you… Fuck, I am _so _shit at this affectionate crap!" I blew out in a breath. The next one came, haggard and shallow. Dying of old age is slow, and tiring, and boring. The twenty or so people let out a shaky laugh.

The blackness was nearly encompassing my vision. I needed to say my last, proper farewells in this world.

"My family… I must leave now… Onto the next great adventure." I chuckled weakly, mind wandering briefly onto thoughts of senile, manipulative bastards.

"Live. Live well, live fast, live happily. Do not let trivial things, like hate, fear, or anger, govern your life. Live as you would want to live, not as others dictate you should. But, most of all, do not forget one, small thing. Do not forget…" I sighed and closed my eyes, the smallest of smiles gracing my features. I took my final, weak breath and spoke my final words. Faint, ever so faint, I whispered,

"Do not forget to love."

And I was gone.

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><p>I awoke seconds, maybe centuries later, to see a pretty pervy-looking guy with mousey brown hair, brown eyes and a boring, easily forgotten face hanging above me. Huh.<p>

"So, are you Jesus or something? You don't look like a Buddha. Merlin? Erm, God? Which one?" I asked him.

I'd assumed the person I met on the 'other side' would look like one of the deities depicted back down (or up?) on earth, but, then again, I assumed Ginevra was as good a person as any other before she did a Merope Gaunt and stopped dosing me with Amortentia. Bitch. Anyway, I was dead, so I didn't have to worry about that shit, just endless relaxation…

"If you'll stop your reminiscing, I'll answer you." The guy, still nameless, said, amusement coloring his voice.

"Alrighty then, go ahead." I nodded to him.

"I'm Death, basically." He replied nonchalantly, shrugging.

"Oh. Great." Not particularly surprising. "Well, can I go to heaven now?"

"Nope."

"What? I'm dead, I need to go to heaven. Oh – hell, maybe? Don't remember doing much wrong, but hey."

"So accepting of death, Mister Potter?"

"What can I say? Two hundred and three years old, most interesting thing that's ever happened to me was when I was eighteen. Killed a Dark Lord, but you'd know that, wouldn't you? You being Death and all." Death – who _really _didn't look like someone called Death – chuckled. Yes, Death, Mr Grim Reaper, Wielder of that Swordy Thing, chuckled. My life's fucked up.

"Ah, yes, little old Tommy. Poor guy." I choked on – air? Erm, I wasn't sure if I was breathing or not. Well, I choked.

"Poor – _poor? _Lord Bloody Voldemort, poor?"

"Yeah. Not his fault he was born with MMPD."

"MMPD?"

"Magical Multiple Personality Disorder. He had a disorder, in which he had two personalities – Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort. Problem is, every time Tom Riddle tried to tell someone about the disorder, rawr, out came Voldemort. When you killed him he came to me – being an owner, well, wielder, of a Hallow, as Tom Riddle. Not Voldemort, Riddle. We talked for ages, ages and ages, and you know what? He _cried, _Potter. He _cried. _Cried for all the lost souls, all the tortured men, all the orphaned children. Harry Potter, you have to help him."

"Help- what? I'm dead, he's dead, it doesn't matter now. We can sit back, relax and have a Mojito in heaven. Right?" Death rolled his eyes. An odd sight, considering he was Death.

"How many Hallows have you owned?" He said slowly, as if talking to a child.

"Well, all of them, at one point."

"Which makes you…"

"Which makes me..."

"Master of Death, you twat. Harry Potter, Master of Death."

"And?"

"Well, as Master of Death, you win a big prize!" I wasn't feeling particularly enthusiastic.

"I win..." I was resorted to answering wearily.

"You win… one free pass! Woo!" He clapped.

"A free pass to…"

"Life. You can start again. Second chance." I was not too excited about the idea. Unsurprisingly.

"Can't I… not? I'm happy being dead. I can hang out with mum, dad, Padfoot, Moony, the twins, hell, Draco, Severus and even Tom if I want!"

"You could 'hang out' with all of those, bar your parents, by doing it again." Death pointed out reasonably.

"Ah, Death's a bitch." I said, flashing him a cocky grin. It didn't work. I was two hundred years old, what did I expect? "But, still no. I just want to retire. Lie down, do _fuck all_ for the rest of forever. Come on, please?"

"It's compulsory."

"I'm the Master of Death. Surely it's not _compulsory." _I said evenly. I'd lived too long to have anger issues. Any more.

"Well, there's one loophole, but I'm entirely too self-sacrificing to tell you it."

"Tell me."

"Well, alright. You can either do it all again or replace me." He said simply. See? Bloody knew there was a fucking catch.

"Replace you? So, like, become Death? How does that work?"

"Yeah. I go on to heaven, and you become me. Wouldn't advise it. Damn good lot of paperwork. If you're enough of a fanboy you can stop when a famous person dies and meet them, but other than that it's just paperwork and forms. This is the most interesting thing that's happened to me in about half a millennia."

"Oh. No. I don't want that. I don't want the other thing but I definitely don't want that. Yep, I'll do it again. Maybe I can fix everything. Made my decision, beam me down, Scotty." Death sighed.

"I know. My wife and kids live in this place, aptly named 'Mortem Mansion'. So it's not all bad. Oh, and I get to visit heaven whenever I like." I glared at him.

"Bastard! I already made my decision!"

"Yes, yes you did. Well, see ya!" Death flashed me the cockiest grin I have ever seen a supernatural being… well, flash would be the appropriate term, I guess. But I'm rambling. Do dead people ramble? I guess they do.

Anyway, Death waved lazily at me and, like when I died for the second or third time (the most recent one, I die too much) blackness encompassed my vision and I felt like I was falling backwards.

Damn! Forgot to ask the bastard what time I'd get back. He did that on purpose. Go figure I'd be presented with a pillock who just likes to fuck with my mind. Would he give me any super powers or something? Would someone _odd _like Luna remember my past life? Death really wasn't very informative.

All I remember thinking after that was that the situation was terribly clichéd.

**AN: **So? Is it worth continuing? I need reviews otherwise I'll drop it.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Ramblings of a Cynical Brat**_

**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Never will. Goddamn.

**Summary**: Harry Potter dies, aged 203. Quite willingly so, too. But then he meets Death, who makes him do it all over again - not that he wants to. Second chance story with a twist. Humor, loads of non-graphic slash, sarcastic!powerful!Harry.

**AN: **Thanks, a lot, for the reviews. Much appreciated, really. Anyway. Allons-y!

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 2 – B is for Bigots and Benefits<span>**

I was thrown unceremoniously back into consciousness some measure of time later. Bloody brilliant. I had no idea where I was – it was pitch black everywhere - and no idea what kind of state I was in. To be truthful, I felt like shit.

To make sure I wasn't being a pillock and I had actually been forced to re-do my life by a handsome but rather dull guy called Death (how fucked up can you get?) I sent a wandless pain hex at my feet. Well, that hurt to say the least. So my powers weren't weakened at all. Or my pain threshold had gotten weaker – but that made even less sense than whatever in the name of insanity had happened in - what was it called? - Mortem Mansion, that was it. I briefly wondered if there was any way I could contact Death. Deciding I'd practice my Necromancy skills at a later date, I sat up. Which was a bad idea.

"Mother goat fucking…" I trailed off into a string of expletives and rubbed my head, which had collided with a wooden beam. A beam that felt oddly familiar. Before even casting a _lumos _I knew exactly where I was.

The cupboard under the fucking stairs. Whoop-de-fucking-do.

Throwing a _lumos _around the room for the hell of it (rather than turn on the rather pathetic lightbulb) I sneered. Disgusting. Spiders, dust, grime, and – wait, was that blood? Lovely. Absolutely lovely. I stretched out, bones popping in protest. Wincing, I realized I had three broken bones and I was littered with bruises. I rubbed my arms and legs, grinning as the marks and scratches faded away. Casting some stronger healing spells, my broken ribs and my cracked femur mended themselves. Still. _Ow_. It was going to take me for_ever_ to heal properly, and I was only, what, three? four? Why the hell did Death send me here anyway? To this time? No - again, that was for later.

I glanced around the room - cupboard - hovel - representation of all the abuse and suffering inflicted upon orphans worldwide - oh, I'll just stick with 'cell' - distastefully, noting the only items of worth; a bundle of near-shredded clothes in the corner, a few broken crayons, a piece of parchment - I mean paper, a couple of silver muggle coins (highly treasured apparently - not a speck of blood or even grime on them) and a small drawing, folded up so many times it really only looked like a screwed-up ball of parchment. Paper. It's paper.

"Come on, Potter. Focus. You're about four. In the past. With the Dursleys. No idea how. Okay, first on the agenda - I need to get out of this... whatever the hell you call this cupboard." I had muttered to myself. Almost lazily waving my hand at the door I gave a satisfied and slightly maniacal grin as I stepped - crawled - out, the shadows of the stairs (it looked to be about five in the afternoon) throwing darkness over my face, my eerily green eyes glowing insanely.

I did not know what the fuck was going on, or why I was cursed with the chance to do it all over again, but I wasn't a Slythindor for nothing. I was going to take advantage of this situation as much and as loudly as I could.

"Iiiit's Harry!" I whispered loudly. I heard a grunt - well, several - as Vernon attempted to get up from the couch. Unsuccessfully. He had evidently heard my deliberately loud exclamation and he must have realised that I had escaped the cupboard. Clever him.

Anywho, I'm rambling. He eventually gave up and called for me to come to him. The reason was something about me being an ungrateful brat, or some shit like that. Winging it (the way I had decided to live my second life) I spontaneously decided that I was going to act like a broken little boy. Hey, I didn't even know if I could talk yet. What the hey.

"Yes, Unky Verno?" I whispered innocently, shuffling towards the Blob on the couch. It sounded like I hadn't developed proper speech functions yet. Ugh. Bloody wonderful.

"_How _did you get out of your room?" The Blob sputtered angrily, his face an odd shade of puce. Why do I feel the need to comment on the colour of his face? I shall refrain from doing so. It sounds awfully cliche.

"Lock open. Me thinks Aunt 'Tuni open it, sir." I quickly spun. Sounded legit. Wandlessly breaking the lock from where I was huddling, just to fortify my excuse, I realised how hungry, and bloody _tiny _I was. Seriously, I was, like, a midget. Even for a four-year-old, I would be a midget. I would need to brew nutrition potions, and-

"Well, _freak, _you can go scrub the floors in the kitchen. Alright?"

"Yesth, Unky Verno." I scrambled away into the kitchen and smiled in satisfaction. Just the Blob in, and he couldn't even get up from the couch. I strolled leisurely over to the fridge and ate my full. _Scourgify-_ing the floor I sat down on one of the seats and began to talk - to myself. Well, I needed to sort out my voice and I didn't know of a spell that did so. And I had to learn quickly - if I remembered my life two hundred years ago (or at the present time. Perspective.) then I would be receiving regular beatings to force the 'freak' out of me. Well, that evidently worked.

"Unky... no... Unkly... fuck. Uncle... Thsank you! Ah, thit." I couldn't even swear properly. "Verno_n. _Tha wath eathy." The letter 's' was an issue. That was a good word to try. "Itthue. Itthue. _Ss. _I_ss_ue. Thank you!"

It continued in that manner for about an hour, during which I had drunk six glasses of water and gargled three. It worked, though - by the end I could talk as well as I did when I was two hundred. How odd did that sound?

The door was wrenched open and a purple-faced Blob (Merlin damn, I said I wouldn't describe his face again) lumbered in, glowering at me. His glare had about the same affect as... well... something ineffective.

"_Freak!"_

"Yes -" I coughed, remembering to lisp. "Yesth, Unky Verno?"

"It's your fault! _Yours!" _He then began to bellow about some muggle phone call or something about as important as... something unimportant. I need to work on my similes. Anyway, ten minutes and quite a lot of spit later, he finished and swung a foot at me. Winging it, again, I leapt out of the way and glared at him.

"That was rather rude, Vernon." My low, dark voice stopped him in his tracks. I love being intimidating. "I mean, I know you're an obese, dimwitted bigot, but abuse is highly unnecessary. There's a phone over there. I wonder, should I call Childline?" The Blob paused, thinking furiously. It looked like a _lot _of effort. Poor him. Eventually he took two plus two and got five.

"How _dare _you insult my intelligence?"

I facepalmed.

"Well done, Vernon. Focus on that part, you total penis." I leaned over and picked up the phone, twisting the cord between my fingers. The Blob blanched.

"What are you doing with that, freak?"

"One would think that when something unexpected and possibly dangerous appears, you would either slip into defensive mode or at least feel a generous amount of vulnerability. But, no. You prod and poke the unexpected thing as if you don't think there will be any repercussions. Well, you know what, Vernon? I discovered something today. A little something that I think you were aware of." Vernon's eyes widened and he paled dramatically. It was quite a sight.

"Do you want to know what that thing was?" Vernon looked like he didn't know whether to nod or shake his head. "I'll tell you. It's a crazy little thing called... magic!" I said cheerily, waving my hand and making the fridge set alight. Much like one senile old man did to one small, impressionable child. Violence is apparently always the answer as Vernon started and cowered. I don't think he noticed the Queen reference. Shame.

Going with the flow, I abruptly stopped the flame charm and darkened the room, looking up to quietly meet Vernon's eyes. I probably looked like some demon child.

"Now, you listen to me, Vernon. You are going to clean out Dudley's second bedroom. Then you are going to buy me a bed and give me a hundred ga- pounds so I can buy some clothes. You are going to do what I say."

"A-and if I d-don't?" Vernon quivered. I gestured to the pristine fridge.

"Well, let's say I'll stop this game of, ah - Happy Families." I said quietly. I didn't like threatening him with that, but it was necessary, and I _really _didn't like the man. The trembling mass who was too much like a fat Wormtail for my liking.

"We clear?" He nodded weakly and I grinned. "I'm just going to take a shower." I waved at the man who looked like he was having trouble breathing.

I jumped into the shower, my mind a bloody whir. I felt like a bit of a pillock, really. I had no idea what was happening. I could have been dreaming, I mused; in which case, hell, it was a dream, I could do what I want. But, then again, it could have been real; in which case, I was the Master of Death and the Boy-Who-Lived (-To Vanquish Voldemort Then Meet Death Who Confuses Him And Makes Him Do It Again), so I could do whatever the fuck I wanted anyway.

"Alright, things I need to do..." I muttered while I tenderly cleaned myself. Ouch. "Well, there's Sirius and Remus, then there's Voldemort who's apparently fifty percent good, then there's, hum, oh, Hogwarts and all that magic shit. I also need to get laid. More than once. Visit Diagon Alley, yeah, need to do that. Oh, get Wormtail. Leave muggle school, I don't know, say I'll be homeschooled. Fuck. What else? Horcruxes, yeah, them. Well, they can be collected and then I'll sort them out when Voldie comes along. I need to have a chat with Death. And meet Hermione, maybe. Is that necessary? I don't know. I mean, I knew her last time, yeah, and unless she remembers everything that was going to happen (but it won't, now, will it?), in some twisted cliche, I could just let her live her life by herself. Yeah, I'll do that. Sooo. What first? I need to un-midget-ify myself, and for that I need potions. From an apothecary. In Diagon Alley. How am I going to disguise myself? Eh, I'll wing it." I hopped out of the shower and dried myself.

Downstairs I saw Vernon, curled into something resembling a ball on the couch.

"Going out to do magic stuff, but I need clothes. Got any cash?" The Ball-That-Was-A-Blob (I wasn't the only one who could have hyphenated nicknames, thank you very much) glanced at the wallet. I shrugged and picked it up. When I opened it, I was surprised to find a couple of thousand pounds. I just knew Grunnings didn't pay that much.

"Where'dya get all the cash, Vernon?" It took him a while to formulate a response. I spent that time surreptitiously casting a secrecy charm on him, ensuring he couldn't tell Petunia or Dudley about my magic, but could inform them to leave me alone and shut the fuck up. Nifty charm, that.

"I... er... we... ." I was surprised - I hadn't realised Vernon's brain worked that fast.

"Say it again. Slooow-ly." I drawled.

"Your kind gives us money to... to look after you. You know, benefits." He said timidly, wincing. I didn't react, though. I mean, I found out a hundred years... later. Why would I be surprised?

"Ah. Well, that makes sense. I'll just take my fill." I grabbed about four hundred pounds.

"Come on, then. Let's go."

"Wh-what?"

"It may have escaped your notice, but I am four. I highly doubt that I will be able to buy myself a wardrobe."

"Um, well, why- no, I mean, how-"

"Can I talk, and act, like I am much older than four?" Vernon nodded shakily. "Magic. Now, let's go."

After an extremely awkward shopping trip, during which I had to remember to talk like an idiot and Vernon had to force the tremor out of his voice, I sat on the couch in my brand spanking new clothes that nobody's really that interested in, (Dudley was staying over at one of his kindergarten mates', and Petunia wouldn't return for a while - she'd be bitching with her fellow housewives for hours.) while Vernon huffed and heaved all of the shit from Dudley's second room (soon to be mine) into the attic. Not as if they could have done that initially.

Anyway, the bed wasn't due to arrive 'till tomorrow, so I informed Vernon I'd be sleeping in Dudley's bed. I nodded to him and left, ignoring the fact that he had looked positively ill at the prospect.

That night, I dreamed of butterbeers, of magic, of family and of hope.

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>And scene. Anywho, I was wondering who people wanted in this story as a friend of Harry, who he tells about the timey wimey stuff - Luna? Hermione? Even Severus or Draco? And should he be a Ravenclaw or a Slytherin? Ravenclaw is extremely cliche, but Slytherin isn't what anyone would expect Harry to go to, so they might react shittily. So, opinions?


	3. Chapter 3

_**Ramblings of a Cynical Brat**_

**Disclaimer**: I'm not going to even make an attempt at an original disclaimer.

**Summary**: Harry Potter dies, aged 203. Quite willingly so, too. But then he meets Death, who makes him do it all over again - not that he wants to. Second chance story with a twist. Humor, loads of non-graphic slash, sarcastic!powerful!Harry.

**AN: **At bottom of chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 - C is for Clichés and Currencies<strong>

I awoke calmly the next morning to a horrified shriek and the wail of an annoying child. Petunia and Dudley were back, then. Yawning, I stretched and stood up, not bothering to get dressed but instead slipping down the stairs in my silk pyjamas. Comfy. Remembering hastily that I had to act like an idiot for, well, ages, I made my movements considerably less fluid and tripped every now and then.

"'Lo, Aunt 'Tunia." I smiled sweetly at the horrified bitch.

"You - you little _freak! _Who do you think you are, sleeping in Dudley's bed? Get into your cupboard immediately!" I cowered slightly, hiding the amused grin that threatened to break out across my face.

_I should pretend to be stupid a lot more often, _I mused. _It's terribly fun. _

"No' me, ma'am. Unky Verno thsaid..." I trailed off, glancing at her. She looked scandalized - _not _a pretty sight - and stalked off, shrieking Vernon's name. I grinned and clambered upstairs to my room. As soon as I entered the room, I felt at ease. True, it wasn't the same - it seemed awfully empty without the Quidditch posters and Hedwig's cage, but it brought back the most wonderful memories. I cast a sideways glance at the loose floorboard, where my wand and cloak would have been; it may have been a hundred and eighty-so years but I couldn't help but reminisce.

Forcing myself out of my reverie, I opened the cupboard that was stuffed to the brim with lovely clothes. Yay. I didn't really need all of them - I'd just loved the sight of Vernon's face when I picked it all up.

Anywho, I shrugged on some relatively decent clothes and considered going downstairs to grab a bite to eat. Realising that a hysterical Petunia and a probably flustered Vernon were down there, I grimaced. Casting several strong glamours to disguise my appearance - I then had lighter brown hair and blue eyes - I shook my legs out and steeled myself. Apparation was pretty easy when you were older, something about physical strength or some shit, I wasn't paying attention during the theory lesson anyway. So, basically, apparating as a four-year-old required some concentration.

_Well, I didn't defeat Voldemort for nothing,_ I thought wryly, as I disapparated out of Privet Drive with a soft _crack._

Reappearing at the apparation point in Diagon Alley, I ambled over to Gringotts. For a person of my height, it looked fucking _huge. _I mean, terrifyingly big. I wondered why the goblins worked there, being as small as they were. Shaking my head again (and briefly wondering where my concentration had got to... oh, shiny! No, but seriously...) I stepped into Gringotts.

It was quite funny how no-one looked twice at a four year old who looked perfectly relaxed in this environment. Then again, this was the wizarding world - freaky shit was normal. Stepping into one of the large lines, I waited patiently as people were harshly served by the little buggers. They were alright, I supposed; trustworthy if you fed them enough Galleons, and fiercely protective.

"Good afternoon and welcome to Gringotts, how may I be of service to you today?" The goblin said in a monotone as I stepped up onto the platform and pulled myself up so that he could see me. I realised that I vaguely recognised him.

"Griphook?" Griphook started in surprise. "Hey, it is you! Great! Lovely to meet you. Okay, I'm Harry Potter. Yes, it is me, and yes, I am four. I'd like an inheritance test, a statement of everything I own and a list of the history of my vaults since Hallowe'en of 1980. We could take this into another room if it's too much trouble to do here? Thanks, alright, let's go." I tapped my foot impatiently as Griphook collected his wits, shook his head and stepped off of the podium, expression torn somewhere between a scowl and a grin. Of course, goblins dealt with odd shit all the time, so it didn't really take that long. Getting bored, I grabbed his wrist - I was pissed off to notice he was _taller _than me - and yanked him down one of the corridors. I stopped when we were outside the Inheritance Room (_how _I remembered where it was is beyond me) and brushed myself off.

"Can you do your awesome goblin magic and open the door now? I'm pretty sure that if I do the magic the senses will register me being human and kill me, and I don't want that to happen for the fourth time!" Griphook could barely register what I was saying before he almost absentmindedly opened the door and led me over to the basin. I had, of course, already taken this test, back when I was about sixty and thought to do it, so I knew what to do.

Ignoring Griphook who was still staring at me oddly I cut my palm with a soundless _Diffindo _and let four drops of blood fall into the basin at the center of the room. Did I mention what the room looked like? Eh, you don't really care.

Anyway, several minutes later there was a flash of blue light and a piece of parchment appeared in midair.

_Harry James Potter_

_DOB: July, 31, 1980._

_DOD: October, 31, 1981, 2 May 1998, 6 July 2183. _Odd that they showed his dates of deaths that... would be... in the future... had Death not changed everything and... oh, it was way too fucking complicated.

_Father: James Charles Potter, Pureblood._

_Mother: Lily Maria Evans, Muggleborn, Parents of squib descendants._

_Guardian(s): Sirius Orion Black (incarcerated), Alice Emma Longbottom (incapacitated), Remus John Lupin (available), Severus Tobias Snape (available) Minerva Liliane McGonagall (available), Petunia Evans, Vernon Terence Dursley (appointed by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore). _Seriously, what was it with goblins and middle names? Half of them looked made-up, to be honest. I didn't even realise Vernon had a middle name. Huh.

_Magical Guardian: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore (self-appointed)._

_Bloodlines, Potter: Potter, Gryffindor, Peverell._

_Bloodlines, Evans: Evans, Slytherin._

_Bloodlines, Other: Black._

_Magical powers, hereditary: Animagus ability (Potter, Gryffindor, Black), parselmouth and parselmagic, (Slytherin) partial Metamorphmagus (Potter, Gryffindor), partial empathy (Evans._

_Magic affection: Fifty percent power suppressor (partially broken), subservience and compulsion charms, strong (completely broken), Metamorphmagus and empathy abilities blocked (broken, re-established on September 21, 1984). _That was yesterday, wasn't it? It was probably the 'blood wards' that reactivated the blocks. Well, that would have to be changed. I then saw the little footnote. I'd already seen it, ages ago in the future, but it was still annoying.

_Conductor of aforementioned affections: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore._

I coughed, to show I was done. Griphook, who had slipped into a contemplative state, started and glanced at me.

"Is everything satisfactory, Mister Potter?" He asked, slightly curious. He was last time, too. I sighed and handed him the paper. Reading it, his eyes widened and he began to sputter. Quite a funny sight for a goblin. I wished I had a camera.

"How- no right- simply atrocious-Dumbledore... illegal... bastard..." I heard, amongst other things not suitable for little children's ears. He continued spluttering for quite some time. Eventually I got bored and began to repeatedly poke the goblin on his forehead until he noticed. Even then, it took him a while.

"Mister Potter, I assure you that we-"

"-here at Gringotts had no idea what Dumbledore did and we will rectify the situation immediately." I finished for him. Been there, done that, you know?

Griphook looked confused and I grinned at him. "Don't worry about it, Griphook. Hey, could you emancipate me?" I asked, on a whim. No offense to Moony or Padfoot (no matter that he was in Azkaban) but I wanted to be independent. I was two hundred, after all.

"I do believe that can be arranged, Mister Pot-"

"-Harry. Call me Harry." Griphook looked even more startled at this; I don't think, in this timeline, any human had told him to call them by their first name. However, he shook it off pretty well and continued. Good for him.

"Well, then, Harry, I do believe that can be arranged." I suddenly remembered something important. Well, more than one something.

"Oh - Griphook?" The goblin nodded to me. "May I ask you a question, posing a hypothetical situation?"

"Of course you may." He said calmly, the hint of a spark dancing in his eyes. I think he could tell I was going to propose something.

"Hypothetically speaking, if a certain person did not wish a certain goblin to inform others of several facts, and, hypothetically, five hundred galleons accidently made their way into a certain goblin's hands, would that certain person be ensured privacy?" Griphook grinned. It was, quite frankly, the most terrifying thing I have ever seen, and that includes the time I walked in on Hagrid and Madame Maxime in the bedroom-

Not reliving that again.

"It would, hypothetically, depend on the facts and to whom these facts would initially be informed to." He replied, still grinning.

"Well, it could be, just a shot in the dark here, that said person is four years old and yet seems to possess abilities many of a hundred could not. Then again, it might be that the four year old also seems to have died, three times, two of which are in the future. Actually, it might be that the four year old is about to be emancipated, and the four year old's magical guardian would hardly approve of that." I responded easily.

"This is, of course, purely hypothetical?"

"Oh, but of course."

"Wonderful." He nodded. "Onto other matters - here are your five rings." Contrary to what people believe (and what I believed the first time round) Griphook just held out his hand and five rings materialised onto it. I slid them on without much of a fuss. No testing of blood, white flashes of light, sudden influx of power. Well, what did you expect? They're just _rings. _

Anywho, I was now wearing the Potter, Black, Peverell, Slytherin and Gryffindor rings. I felt like a pimp, with all of the big, chunky rings on my fingers. Maybe I could borrow Lucius Malfoy's cane.

We left the room and walked to Griphook's office where he tapped his goblin-ish finger (I could not give a flying fuck about describing his hand in perfect detail, thank you very much) to a piece of parchment which filled with a lot of words that were highly uninteresting and just stated that I had a lot of houses and a lot of money. Yay. He gave it to me and I pocketed it.

Then he showed me another piece of paper - the history of my vaults. Turns out (again) that Dumbledore had been stealing from my vaults. A grandiose total of half a million fucking galleons. Of course, it hardly made a dent in my account, in the grand scale of things, but it's the action that counts.

Dumbledore had used about thirty percent of the stealings for the Order of the Flaming Chicken - as unoriginal and cliched as the nickname was - thirty for Hogwarts, only about eight percent to pay the Dursleys, and the remaining percent he had stowed away in his own private vault. Looking closer into the second part of Dumbledore's robbery, I noted (again) that he was using my money to pay Severus', Minerva's, and most of the other teacher's paychecks.

I couldn't decide whether or not to keep that going or not. It wasn't as if they knew it was stolen money, and it was barely noticeable on my statement. In the end I decided to split the whole of the thirty percent between Severus and Minerva, so they got a yearly stipend of 75,000 galleons. Which was a lot. I didn't give two shits about any of the other teachers - I was even considering knocking Minerva off as well, considering how bad she had been when I had tried to go to her for advice. But, she was my guardian, so that probably accounted for something.

So, after I had calmed a furious Griphook down, signed the emancipation letters (they would take two weeks to file, or some shit), and Griphook had ensured that he was going to meet with me again to fix my suppresion charms and shit, I was done. I was just about to walk out of the office when I turned around, remembering something that I should have remembered before.

"I'm going to be blunt about this, rather than dance around the facts." Griphook looked up then, slightly curious. Well, very, but he wasn't going to show it. "There's an innocent man in Azkaban, and I want him out. I don't give a shit who you have to hire, and how much it costs, he is going to get out of there. I will give you _indisputable _proof that he is innocent. But I want this all to be done anonymously; no matter _how _much I care for him, I need a few years to sort out my thoughts." I finished wryly before turning to walk out the door. Griphook, jaw set tight (I had that effect on people - and magical beings) called after me.

"Who? Who are you trying to liberate?"

I turned around and looked at him right in the eyes with a raised eyebrow. I really, really wanted there to be some dramatic build-up music while a camera zooms into my face before I say the words. Like I was in some kind of cheesy action movie.

"Why, Sirius Black, of course."

(See, that's the part where the music stops and there's that drum that goes BA-DOOM.)

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Okay. Thanks, a million basquillion, for all of the reviews. Super siriusly, thanks a lot.

-At the moment, these are the views on Harry's house: No-one thinks he should go into Gryffindor. No-one. I have two takers for Hufflepuff, three for Ravenclaw and four for Slytherin. So, yeah.

-I thought I'd just post this because more than one person has asked about it: Harry taking the second bedroom. I mean, in the books, it says the guest bedroom 'always smelt like dog' and Harry would have had bad memories associated with the room. With the second bedroom, it was his for about a year, if you add it up. It was his only escape from the Dursleys - it was the room that was his, that he could fill with his magical stuff, keep Hedwig in, hide food in the loose floorboard, etcetera. I just felt that he'd have some emotional attachment to it.

-Thank you, guys, and I appreciate the fact that you like my cynical!Harry. I do try. :')

-Oh, just to point out, I do make an effort to respond to every review. If I haven't responded to yours, PM me.

**E**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Ramblings of a Cynical Brat**_

**Disclaimer: **Insert generic disclaimer here. Add a shit joke. There you go.

**Summary: **Harry Potter dies, aged 203. Quite willingly so, too. But then he meets Death, who makes him do it all over again - not that he wants to. Second chance story with a twist. Humor, loads of non-graphic slash, sarcastic!powerful!Harry.

**AN: **Sorry, this chapter was down for a while, because a _very_ helpful member called **fireyhell** reviewed the chapter and showed me how shit it was. It's still pretty bad, but better than it was before. Yeah, this was an 'off' chapter for me. Writer's block. Apologies.

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 4 - D is for Discretion and Domestication<span>**

"_Who? Who are you trying to liberate?"_

_I turned around and looked at him right in the eyes with a raised eyebrow. I really, really wanted there to be some dramatic build-up music while a camera zooms into my face before I say the words. Like I was in some kind of cheesy action movie._

"_Why, Sirius Black, of course."_

_(See, that's the part where the music stops and there's that drum that goes BA-DOOM.)_

* * *

><p>I stepped out of Gringotts with a poorly concealed grin adorning my features. Things were going <em>incredibly <em>fast, indeed; I could have all my problems sorted in a week if I wanted to.

But where's the fun in that?

Anywho, armed with a heavy sack of galleons (why they didn't use notes or credit cards is beyond me) I ventured into Diagon - and Knockturn - Alley... and began to shop.

Several hours and the whole sack of galleons later, I returned to my room at Privet Drive with a smirk and a bazillion bags of shopping.

Having given the excuse that I had consumed a botched supplement potion, reverting me to a four-year-old, shopkeepers really didn't seem to mind my wandering round the shops and buying a ridiculous amount of stuff. They'd even been _ever _so sympathetic and the guy at the apothecary had given me cash off, in 'the hopes that I find a cure quickly'. Huh.

I bought three cauldrons of varying sizes and qualities, about half the apothecary, one of those trunks that Moody had (yes, I conformed with the fanfiction rules. For once.), a million trillion bazillion books, with an expanding bookcase to match, a hollow wand (wands never did work well for me after I discovered wandless magic), a fridge that fills up with as much food as you've paid for, some random Dark objects from Borgin & Burke's, an unbreakable rat cage, and a packet of crisps.

Well, as you can see, I just saved you the trouble of reading a completely pointless chapter, in which I name a million awful titles of books I've made up and try to invent different potions ingredients. You're very welcome.

So, yeah. I was in my room. I unshrunk all of the shit I bought and flung my clothes in the wardrobe before setting up the bookshelf and adding the books to it. Then I put all my potions ingredients and supplies in the trunk, and basically sorted out all my stuff before picking up a book called _How to Survive When the World Wants You Dead _by some Russian guy. Maybe he was Czech. Or even German. I couldn't pronounce, let alone spell, his name, anyway.

I got it from Borgin & Burkes. It was dropped in a corner, like it fell out of a box or something. I wanted the book to contain some good spells - y'know, rare ones and all that - but if there was one that would solve my Tom Riddle problem while creating world peace, destroying all the lemon drops in existence, and sending all of the Veela in the world begging to have sex with me (even those really rare male ones you get once in a gazillion years), I think I'd give up. Some aspects of the wizarding world are so overused already and I'd have to be a pretty weird spell-creator to come up with a spell like that. Next thing you know, Fawkes is actually Merlin, Snape's my dad and I'm the Lord of Azkaban. Pah.

I read for about an hour before coming across a particularly interesting passage near the back.

"_Perhaps the strongest and most influential charm to avoid notice by other humans is known simply as _The Forgotten Man. _This spell - the most difficult in the book - requires four straight hours of chanting and the caster will be unconscious for anything up to a month afterwards, depending on how magically strong they are._

The Forgotten Man _is an ancient charm, salvaged from the ruins of the Great Battle of Pompeii. (See page 54 for the Dark Lord Sansame and his control of Vesuvius) Its purpose is to hide the caster physically, mentally and emotionally from others of the casters choosing; the caster will literally not exist to these people._

_The spell can be altered at the caster's wish; a spoken spell and those who have forgotten them will temporarily remember them if the caster so wishes it._

_There are several drawbacks to the charm. It must be recast every year due to the sheer power that the spell draws upon. Although images that belong to those that forget the caster will disappear, along with any written evidence, the spell can be broken upon seeing legal and recorded documents not belonging to them. (For other possible side affects see the next page.)_

_The actual spell casting contains fourteen verses, spoken in several languages, and must be done in a secluded room with no disturbances. The runic base for the spell must be drawn in the blood of those the caster wishes to disappear from - whether it be given willingly or unwillingly._

The book then went on to describe the process, side affects, drawbacks and possible issues that coincided with casting this particular bit of magic. Pretty boring, actually. In summary, if I happened to cast it with the blood of the Dursleys, they would conveniently forget the fact that I exist. A small muggle-repelling ward on my room and I'd have no problems with them for the rest of the history of forever. Oddly convenient, isn't it?

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. I studied the text for about three hours. Memorizing fourteen verses of random languages when you hardly speak any of them is very difficult. I remember seeing the words 'blood', 'forget', 'avoid', and even the word 'tortoise' there somewhere. But, a few hours (well, very many hours and a Chinese takeaway courtesy of my awesome fridge) later, I had it down.

Then, all I had to do was procure blood samples of the Dursleys and draw the runes and chant the verses and pass out and save Sirius and Tom and get the Horcruxes and meet Luna and Hermione and a lot of other shit that was too tiring to think about.

So, I had to procure a sample of Vernon, Dudley and Petunia's blood. Vernon's would be easy, and I guessed I could get Dudley's and Petunia's while they slept. To be honest, it would be easier if I got Vernon's while he slept too. Yeah. I'd do that.

I sat back on my big new shiny canopy bed - which had been delivered sometime while I was at Diagon Alley - and continued reading the book.

It was _very _handy.

By eleven o'clock, everyone in the house except for me was fast asleep. Creeping ninja-like... ninja-ly? In a ninja-ish manner? Ninja-ish-ly? Yeah. That one.

Creeping ninja-ish-ly, (it still doesn't sound right, does it?) I reached Vernon and Petunia's room. I threw a _Silencio _at my throat, feet and, well, everything else, so they wouldn't hear me. Then I did that spell that feels like an egg is being cracked over your head - Disillusionment Charm, that's it - so they wouldn't see me, either. I walked up to them and picked up a loose thread from a rug. It was red, if you were interested. I transfigured it into a syringe.

Long story short, I wandlessly numbed Petunia, Vernon and Dudley's arms and took about a hundred millilitres of their blood each, before transferring it into viyeals. There was one scary moment when Dudley opened his eyes and I thought he was going to start screaming, but he just sat up, lay down and fell asleep again.

Lazy bugger.

Back in my room I began to draw the runes on the floor - I had to use my pinky, because my room was so small (that would have to be remedied) - with the blood. Disgusting, I know.

An hour of annoyingly detailed runes and curvy lines and other confusing shit later I had finished with the floor. Glancing once more at the book, I did some ritual-y stuff, like lighting candles and generally setting the mood, before sitting right in the middle cross-legged and chanting in a lot of languages. Like, _seven _or something. Latin, Greek, French, hell, maybe Martian, for all I know. I just memorized the words. I'd write down what the words were but I don't really trust Google Translate and a Martian might read this and comment on my bad translation skills. From what I could glean there was something about 'cleanse the mind of my being' and some other poetic stuff that could be misheard as dirty euphemisms in the right context.

I was on the last line, something like 'so mote it be' in Spanish, when there was this huge-mega-ultra-bright light and I passed out. Lovely.

* * *

><p>I woke up about twenty five hours later - I checked the time - with a headache worse than any hangover I've ever experienced. Including the time me and Winky got smashed on Firewhiskey and Pepper-Up Potions at Christmas. Ah, memories.<p>

Surprised that it had only taken a day for me to return to the world of the conscious, I double-triple checked the date and time. Yup, one day, one hour, nine minutes and twenty... five seconds after I began chanting. The candles were all little stubby things and the room had lost the ritual-y-ness that it had before. Disappointing.

Well, what next? Pulling up my inventory again, I summarized; Sirius and Remus, Wormtail, Horcruxes, Gringotts again, (I had been idiotic enough to forget to see my parent's wills, which no doubt would reveal something tragic and shocking) my room, Voldemort, friends, Hogwarts. I'd probably forgotten some stuff but that was the general idea.

So, where to first, then? I'd decided to make my room lovely and comfortable and thanks to some bonding sessions with Winky after Dobby's demise I knew some house elfy magic. Calling it forth impressively, I threw my chest out and shouted,

"Two free house elves!" Two house elves popped into existence a few seconds later, both looking considerably unwell. I was embarrassed and more than a little annoyed to note that they were both the same height as me. I knew I was small, but really, that was just taking the piss. Deciding to bond as soon and as quickly as possible, I remembered the long and difficult chant required to bond a house elf to a wizard.

"D'you want to be my house elves?"

There were two heartfelt replies of "Yes, please, good sir!".

"Great." There was a flash of white light and the elves were wearing a clean, neat uniform with the words _Potter elf _in veeery small stitching on the back at the hem.

Now that was done with, I conjured three bean bags and fell down onto the largest one, motioning for the elves to do the same. Withholding tears, but realising I was going to be a nice owner, they complied. Not as emotionally unstable as Dobby, then.

"So, what're your names?"

"Jinky, Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Perky, Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Alright, Jinky and Perky, welcome to the relatively small house of Potter." I gestured invitingly around my small room, knocking over a book as I did so. Scowling, I picked it back up. "I'll answer your questions later, give me a minute."

"We do not need to ask questions, Master Harry Potter, sir." They said in creepy unison.

"Are you two twins?"

"Yes, Master, sir."

"Yeah, yeah, Harry'll do." I said, waving my hand at them. "Okay. So, my friend, Winky - yes, she is a house elf - told me that house elves are as intelligent as their owners make them, correct?" They nodded, blinking owlishly. "So... fuck... okay then. I, Harry James Potter, hereby bestow the house elf equivalent of my intelligence onto my house elves, Jinky and Perky. So mote it be." This time there was a flash of light and the twins shook their heads quickly before looking at me with identical grins.

"You really don't give two shits about pureblood house elf treatment, do you?" One of them said. Okay, I know I just made them geniuses with superior, if crass, linguistic skills, but _that _was creepy. I shook my head anyway.

"My friend, how could I? You elves have the bloody _best _drinking games. Ever. No questions asked."

"Including-"

"Yes, including vampires." And man, vampires are alcoholics. The house elves smirked and leant back in the beanbags simultaneously. Weird.

"Are you going to fill us in on why the fuck you look like you're four, or what? And please, for the love of insanity, give us proper names. I think our previous owners were two Knuts short of a Galleon."

"Alright, I got it. Tom and Jerry." I said, grinning with satisfaction.

"If you call us Tom and Jerry-"

"-we will cut off your Tom-"

"-and stick it up your Jerry." They said darkly. Wincing, I came up with something better.

"Okay... how about... Apollo and Artemis?"

They looked slightly more satisfed. "Yeah, okay. You can be Apollo-"

"-and you can be Artemis." The other one finished. These two were as bad as Gred and Forge... before one had his ear cut off and the other died. Yeah, all that shit _happened. _It's only AU _now_.

They then turned expectantly to me. Oh, yeah.

"Alright, settle down and conjure some popcorn. This is a long, _long _story." They complied, and I began.

"On the 31st of July, 1980, Harry Potter was born..."

An hour later, I took a breath. "So, I woke up on Dudley's eleventh birthday. Petunia..."

Another three-quarters of an hour later. "...and then Draco Malfoy said, 'Catch it if you can, then!' And threw the Remembrall..."

A _very, very _many hours later - "...so, then, that meant Dobby was free. Malfoy..."

A holy-fuck-look-at-the-time amount of hours later - "...then Remus pulled Sirius up, and _hugged _him. It looked like a brotherly, 'hey bro!' kind of hug, but I have a very strong suspicion some groping was involved. Anyway..."

About a year of my life later - "...then suddenly, we were in this weird ass graveyard..."

"...and then Luna suggested we use the Thestrals. Genius, that witch..."

"...Draco came round the corner, his wand pointed at Dumbledore..."

"...and then, poof! Voldemort was dead..."

"...I married Ginny. _Not _the best decision I ever made..."

"...Severus, Lily and James were all on the platform, one of the happiest days of my life... memories, y'know? Hey, hand me some more popcorn..."

"...I found these files, hidden in Dumbledore's old office. They'd never cleaned it out or anything, something about treasuring his life. Hah, like I'd treasure his life after I read the files..."

"...Severus married Scorpius the same day as Hugo Weasley married Maria..."

"...and I heard Ginny and Ronald talking to Molly. I didn't want to intrude, of course, but I heard the word 'Amortentia'..."

It was nearing dawn, and I hadn't even got up to the 150-mark. Though, things really weren't that interesting after that.

"...so James married, _again..."_

"...I woke up to see this weirdo looking at me. Said his name was Death..."

"...and now I'm here." I finished. Gasping for breath I fell back into the beanbag, leaning my head back. Apollo and Artemis just sat there. Their jaws had dropped when I was about eleven and had only closed to chew popcorn since.

"Holy-"

"-fuck."

"You're shitting us."

I just laughed. "So, you understand now?" They nodded weakly. I chuckled and slotted three galleons into the fridge before reaching in and pulling out two bottles of firewhiskey. Grabbing one I handed the other to the twins who immediately took three giant gulps apiece.

Ten minutes of firewhiskey consumation and a lot of disbelief later they came to their senses.

"So. Voldemort - good. Dumbledore - bad." I nodded and they groaned in unison. "That. Is. So. Clichéd."

"Next minute you'll be telling us-"

"-that Severus is your father-"

"-and you're the Lord of fucking Azkaban."

Oh, yes. The perfect house elves for me.

"Exactly! I mean, I swear this has been done so many times before..." They agreed, rolling their eyes. "So, guys. Could you do your awesome house elfy magic and make my room into an apartment? Y'know, bathroom, kitchen, television, the lot?"

"Yes, Master Harry sir, right away." Apollo said, bowing deeply. I stared at him oddly until he started laughing. "I'm just fucking with you. Yeah, we'll sort out the room. But we expect payment in alcohol and stuff."

"Yeah, we're adding a room of our own somewhere." Artemis added.

"Do you want us to go collect Wormtail and deliver him to Gringotts for you?"

"Or we could find the Horcruxes, if you want." Apollo added helpfully. I, however, shook my head.

"No, I think it's best if I do those things by myself. What else does the writer have to write about?" Nodding in realization, they told me to bugger off while they fixed up my room, so I did.

I did fuck all for the next two hours, just wandering around Little Whinging and playing my favourite old game, avoid-the-neighbours. Fun.

Oh, I wrote a letter;

_Dear Headmaster of Little Whinging Comprehensive._

_I regret to inform you that I will be extracting one Harry James Potter from your school. Although he has only been attending your kindergarten for a year we feel that we should homeschool him. As you are no doubt aware, he is not at all sociable and dislikes interaction with others. After consulting a doctor... _and other boring but rather convincing shit like that.

_I apologise for any inconvenience this may cause._

_Regards,_

_Vernon Terence Dursley_

_Harry J. Potter's legal guardian._

That was sorted, then.

"Hey, Harry, you want me to send that letter?" Artemis suddenly said from next to me. I would have jumped about a foot in the air, but I had awesome ninja reflexes, so I didn't. Kinda.

"Holy- alright, hi, Art. Yeah, just put it on the desk of the headmaster's office in the school, okay? And is my room ready? I'd love to see it." He nodded and disappeared with the letter so I went to my room.

Whistling to convey how absolutely impressed I was I wandered around the flat. Bathroom wiith a bath oddly reminiscent of the prefect's bathroom at Hogwarts, bedroom as big as... a big bedroom, house elf bedroom, modern kitchen (super-magic fridge included), a hidden swimming pool, a ball-pit room, a gym (booor-_ing), _an alcohol room and a library. There were some other rooms, too, but one of them roared so I decided to explore later.

_Okay, _I remember thinking as I sat down on the beanbag in front of the gigantanormous TV. _What next?_

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Sorry, sorry, ssoooorrrryyyy. I have had the _shittiest _writer's block for _ever._ That's why this chapter is mainly filler, and has taken ages to write. If you're a fanfiction writer, you'll know what I mean. Writer's block is just awful. Next chapter - potions, Potter wills and pet rats.

Harry's house -

Gryffindor: 2

Hufflepuff: 3

Ravenclaw: 5

Slytherin: 5

Thank you very much for your opinions so far. If you really think that Harry belongs in a certain house, let me know through a review. Thanking you!

**E**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Ramblings of a Cynical Brat**_

**Disclaimer**: I think it's about time I do a proper disclaimer. I did not, do not and never will own Harry Potter, Warner Brothers, Bloomsburg, or any other companies associated with Harry Potter. I also do not own any movies I briefly mention.

**Summary**: Harry Potter dies, aged 203. Quite willingly so, too. But then he meets Death, who makes him do it all over again - not that he wants to. Second chance story with a twist. Humor, loads of non-graphic slash, sarcastic!powerful!Harry.

**Short AN: **Apologies guys, didn't realise how much I was mentioning 'FF writers' etc in my last chapter. Will rectify that in the following ones. Thanks for the reviews, they mean a lot. More reviews = faster updates! Allons-y!

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><p><strong>Chapter Five - Enigmas and Euphemisms<strong>

I woke up the next morning - or maybe afternoon - groaning. I felt like I'd just been pulled apart, put back together again backwards, then flipped on my head twice, swallowed a small porcupine and then vomited it up.

And after the first time, I can tell you, it is _not _a pleasurable experience. Needles _everywhere_.

"OY! APOLLO! THINGY - Y'KNOW, WHATSISFACE, THAT GUY, UM, JIMMY, THAT'S IT - HE'S AWAKE! FINA-" He hiccuped violently - "-FINALLY!" Artemis shouted, swaying on his feet. Apollo came tumbling round the corner, pouring a sobering potion into his mouth as he went.

"Sh-shut up and hand me either some more alcohol or sobering potion." Apollo threw me a vial of what looked like potion. I swallowed it, and all traces of porcupine-y-ness were gone. I turned to look at Artemis and realised that he had not slept a wink that night and was covered in tattoos, ranging from statements such as '_Yeah, I'm an efl, keep moving' _(Yes, 'elf' was spelt wrong) to a drawing of Dumbledore and Grindlewald in a... compromising position.

Apollo bit his tongue, realising just what his counterpart looked like. I ignored them and closed my eyes.

"What the fuck _happened _last night?"

"Drunken debauchery, Harry. Drunken debauchery." Apollo said, in the process of forcing a vial of sobering potion down Artemis' throat. I rolled my eyes.

"I gathered _that _much." I gestured towards the dozens upon dozens of alcohol bottles that were littering the floor. "What happened during the drunken debauchery? I don't remember anything after 'Never have I ever been touched up by a ghost while I was naked in a bath holding a golden egg'. That was when I finished the forty-somethingth bottle."

Suddenly, Artemis, yawning tiredly yet admittedly sober, muttered drowsily, "I remember from 'Never have I ever dreamed about having sex with a goblin while wearing nineteenth century French muggle clothing'."

Apollo nodded, whistling. "That was a good one."

"Um... Right. You awake then, Art?" I nudged the elfy mass with my toe and he slapped it away.

"So, wha's on the agenda today?"

Rubbing my head with my irritatingly small hand, I yawned and realised I had to make some healing and nutrition potions for my height. I also needed to sunbathe. And-

"Hey! I don't need glasses any more!" I realised.

"No shit."

"I grew up my whole life needing either glasses or contact lenses, and now I can stop myself from ever needing either! Awesome!"

"Fan-fucking-tastic." Apollo said, rolling his eyes.

He grabbed my wrist - his hand was bloody _bigger _than mine! - and pulled me to my bedroom. He reached into his pocket and pulled out six vials - two full of lime green potion, two of flourescent pink and two of a poisonous, inky black.

"This one-" he held up the disgustingly green one - "is Skele-Gro. You've had that before, right? It's a special version for special little you - it'll fix all your bones. This pinky one is a nutrient potion, which tastes like shit, but will fix all of your muscles, and make you lovely and tall. The inky black one is a full-body healing potion - oddly convenient, that - and will fix the bruises and bumps you've got. Savvy?"

"How long is this going to take?"

"Hours, days, maybe even weeks, I don't know. Just take them, lie down, and let us get smashed in peace, alright?"

"You- wh- holy fuck, you're impossible."

Apollo bowed deeply, his nose grazing the floor. "I lives to serves our Master Harry Potter sir, no matter how much of a pillock master is."

"Bastard."

"Midget."

"Fuck you." I grabbed the vials out of his hand.

"Which one do I take first?"

"Greens, pinks, blacks, quickly." I shrugged and leapt on the awesomely big canopy bed - Star Wars sheets, beat _that_, bitches - and swallowed the vials. The last thing I saw before everything went an oddly familiar black was Apollo saluting me before pulling out another bottle of firewhiskey.

Only I would bond with two alcoholic house elves with a tendency to render me unconscious.

* * *

><p>I woke up... some measurable amount of time... later, groaning. Owchie ow ow. I felt like I'd been put on one of those stretcher-y things used for torture ages ago.<p>

"Artemis, get here, I need a hand. And Merlin help you if you're smashed!" I yelled, my throat cracking.

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. You- you know what? You're no... you're no fun. But- but, but, ha! I beat you, Pottery!" Why he called me Pottery, I had no idea, but apparently he found it hilarious, as he burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles a few seconds later. He recovered after about five minutes.

"I'm not... I'm not smashed! I'm _not, _super seriously! I'm... I'm... what's it called? You, know, thing, when you've..." He clicked his fingers a few times, trying to remember what it was called.

"High! Yeah, high! That's it. I'm high. I have had... a _lot..._ of pot."

"For _fuck's _sake. You are of no use at all, are you? Though," I added, watching him accidentally conjure a beaver and proceed to try and tap-dance with it, "You are good for comic relief. Ah, well, Apollo?"

"I warn you, I am also rather stoned." Apollo said, stumbling in and pulling me to my feet. "I told you not to knock yourself out with us, alcohol, TV and drugs on the loose!" I wisely ignored this comment.

"How long have I - ow - been out of it?"

"A week and a bit. It's the... erm... the second of October, I think."

"A whole fucking week?"

"No, a regular week, you knob. So, you feeling alright?"

Noticing my surroundings, I was pleasantly surprised to note that the floor was further away from me than before, and I felt stronger. Not oh-my-gods-I-can-carry-a-hippogriff stronger, just stronger.

"How tall am I now?" Artemis - sober once more - measured me with a cool magic measuring tape.

"Well, you were three foot one, now you're three seven. Grown six inches. Cool. You'll be a tall adult, now." Artemis shrugged and walked away.

Apollo sniffed dramatically and rubbed his eyes.

"My baby's all grown up..."

"Well, you're not getting any bigger, so you can stop making fun of me." I scowled. He laughed and walked out, only to pop his head back in.

"Oh, yeah. Griphook floo'd - you said something about reading y'parent's wills again? Some lady died, you got her slot - it's tomorrow at two, they've sent a portkey." He pulled out a Sickle - the portkey, I guessed - and flipped it to me before disappearing again. Leaving me on my own, recovering from a week and a half of being comatose.

What excellent friends I have.

"_Accio Muscle Relaxant." _I said, thanking wizard god that I had spent a hundred galleons on many, many, many potions in the Alleys.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Griphook."<p>

"Harry."

"You alright? What'ya been up to?"

"Not much, really." He paused. "Did you know that mermaids have a cross-dressing fetish?" I grimaced.

"Yup. Found out when I was, oh, fourteen? _Not _a pretty sight."

"Poor you."

"Yes."

There was a pause, during which neither of us could really come up with something to add to the short conversation.

I leant back on my chair, then had that 'holy-shit-I'm-going-to-die-again' moment when you lean too far back and nearly fall over and your stomach goes 'floop' and your life flashes before your eyes.

I tilted forward again.

"You've gotten taller." Griphook finally noted.

"And you haven't."

"Astute observation."

"Yeah."

Another pause.

"So..." I finally said. "Let's see these wills, then."

"What? Oh, yeah." He pulled out a piece of paper from his Drawer of Many Things - I refrained from making a comment about Narnia - and handed it to me. Already knowing what was in it - and what to do - I cut my finger and added a drop of blood to the page. Words instantly appeared. From what I gathered last time, the pretty writing was my mother's and the rather scrawled was my father's.

_Dear Harry,_

_If you are reading this, **it means we're dead. **James! **What? **...Never mind. Yes, honey, we've passed on. **Hopefully heroically, kicking Death Eaters in the nuts and yelling 'For Sparta!' as we go. **...Yes. Anyway, we are sorry we couldn't be there for you, baby, and we just want to help you now we're gone._

_Now, you should be living with Sirius and Remus. __**Tell them to get married, already. **__If you're not, I hope you're with Severus. __**Lily, why would he be with **__**Snivellus**_ (it was crossed out) _**Severus****?**_ _You _know_ why. If not, you'll be with either the Longbottoms or the McGonagalls. __**Ooh, Minnie? **__Yes, James. If _not_, and Merlin help Dumbledore if it's true, you've been placed with someone we don't want you to be with. __**If it's Petunia and her b- **_(the next sentence was scribbled out feverishly.) _**-rather unpleasant husband, then kick Dumbledore where it hurts, will you? **__I actually can't disagree with that. If you're with them, then something has gone horribly wrong and I need to haunt some people._

_Baby, __**How do you know he's a baby? **_Baby, _mummy __**and daddy **__love you very much. We give you everything we have - knowledge, books, money, everything - __**other than a couple thousand for Moony and Pads - **__and our blessing. Please do well in life. Fall in love... __**kill some Death Eaters... **__have children... __**prank Sniv-Severus... **__make friends... __**get a Marauder name... **__do well in school... __**prank Sn-Severus... **__get a job... __**and prank Severus.**_

_**We love you, kiddo. Don't hate us for leaving you.**_

_Mum **and Dad.**_

I grinned. Go figure my mother'd be the voice of reason. I then noticed a couple post-scripts that would have been oh-so-very-helpful _had I bloody read them in my other life._

_**PS: Kiddo, Mum doesn't know I've added this. I've had my doubts about Moon, Pads and Wormie recently. i don't know if it's just me being paranoid or what... but I need to tell you this. Peter Pettigrew is the Secret Keeper to Godric's Hollow. Can't lie in a will, right? Well, he is, and we switched.**_

_**PPS: Dumbledore's evil.**_

...Well. That slightly changed things.

"Griphook?"

"Yup?"

"You know I said I'd show you indisputable proof?"

"Uhuh?"

"Look there. No- there, right there." Griphook read it with wide eyes.

"You mean- you mean that-"

"Yup yuppity yup."

"We need to get Sirius Black _out _of there!"

"Yeeees, you do."

"And capture Peter Pettigrew!"

"No shit."

"And give them both a trial!"

"I actually inferred that, surprisingly."

"And the Wizarding World needs to find out the truth!"

"...Now you're just annoying me."

"And-"

"Can I visit the Potter vault now?" I interrupted. "I got me some books to get."

* * *

><p>I arrived back at my house with an armful of books. Annoyingly, there were no paintings of my parents in the vaults - Dumbledore'd stolen them or something, probably.<p>

"Haaaaaarry's hooooome!" Artemis sang as he jumped onto the sofa.

"And you are drunk. Or high."

"Or both." He said wisely and philosophically. "Do you know what?" I sighed wearily.

"What?"

"That's what. No, but seriously, I think-"

"Yes?"

"-that if all of the funny people in Lord of the Rings just flew there on those giant birds that they used to get back, the movies would have been a lot shorter and that guy wouldn't have died."

"Relevant. And you _do_ realise the movies haven't come out yet?"

"Well... yes... but that's your fault for being the King of the Underworld or whatever the fuck it is." Artemis yawned and sat up. "Got any chips? I really fancy chips." He walked away.

I was seriously reconsidering making my house elves clever.

Artemis mentioning my brush with Death (Who looked like he should be called Charlie, or maybe Leonard From Work) reminded me to get in touch with him, using my awesomely powerful super-ninja-Necromancy skills. It was of vital importance I communicate with him; without him and the twins to rely on, I had no help, no contact, and no communication. Death was the one person who could help me through this mess triumphant, and I _needed _to talk to him.

Eh. I'd do it tomorrow.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>I'd like to formally apologise to Fanfiction Readers of the Internet for my incredibly insane lack of posting recently. I have literally just finished this chapter and haven't even begun the next. Although, in it, there will be the _**dreaded news articles **_that people skim over even though they may contain vital information. And he meets Death again. And Death's family.

Again, houses:

Gryffindor: 2

Ravenclaw: 6

Hufflepuff: 5

Slytherin: (wow-that's-a-lot) 17

Other: 1 (The House of The Hat, aka Unsortable)

As you can see, Slytherin's where people want him to go. However, if you still _really _think he belongs in other houses, review or you'll be of no help and probably ruin the story for yourself. And I'll get Voldemort to kill you. Y'know, motivation.

Evelyn out, bitches.

**E**


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